Aired

By J L Wilson

Charlotte Rochester knows about guarding the vulnerable but this job is more than she bargained for. John Aire, the wealthiest man in town, hired Charlotte to act as a companion to his granddaughter, Adele. Part of her 'companion role' is as a guard to keep Adele safe.

Charlie befriends the tweenager. What she didn't count on was a friendship with Aire, an attractive and powerful man. When Adele is kidnapped to be a sacrifice in a twisted religious rite, John and Charlotte must save her. They'll do anything to protect this child from the deadly past that ruined her parents and has haunted John for years.

Somehow, along the way, Charlotte needs to decide if there's a place for her among the rich and famous. Is she just the governess that can be disposed of? Or is there another life for her?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509246403

J L Wilson

Want more info? Check my web site. That will tell you where my books are in print, what I'm working on next, where you can find me and other gory details. Or just check my books at https://bit.ly/JLWbooks. They'll tell you a lot about me!

Book preview

How many guards are in the house tonight?

A nightlight behind John’s desk highlighted his movements. I could see him remove a gun and a shoulder harness from the drawer. Paul, Frank, and Mark. Paul is outside. Frank and Mark are inside.

How long before the police arrive?

Five minutes, maybe ten. Possibly longer given the weather.

I gestured to the automatic he held. Do you have another? Mine’s in my room.

John straightened. You’re remarkably calm about this.

It’s not my first rodeo.

I expect you to explain that remark later. He reached into the desk and pulled out a 9mm in a belt clip and handed it to me. It was heavier than my S&W but familiar.

I checked the safety then attached the belt clip onto my jeans, holding the gun at my side. Where do you need me? I whispered.

John went to the door. Stay with Adele. I think she’s in her room.

If we need to evacuate, I’ll take her to the woods and the patio below. From there we can hide if we have to.

You’re not a regular nanny, are you?

I’ve done some security work.

Aired

by

J L Wilson

Remembered Classics Romance #10

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Aired

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Jean Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4639-7

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4640-3

Remembered Classics Romance #10

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To librarians everywhere and the books I read, which set me on the path I’m on today.

Author’s Note

While obeah and other similar religions are followed in the Caribbean, it is important to state clearly that the religious practices described herein are solely the product of the author’s imagination and have no basis in reality. All characters, locations, events, and cultural descriptions are completely fictitious and have no relationship to actual people or events.

Chapter 1

Are you crazy? They need somebody who can handle teenagers and act as a hostess for business dinners. I regarded Burns Allen, one of my oldest and most exasperating friends, who held a clipboard in one well-manicured hand. I can’t do that.

Of course you can. He bent over the clipboard, pen raised. Charlotte E. Rochester, he said, filling in the top line. Do you want me to use your cell phone or home phone?

Neither.

Okay. Home phone. Age. He looked at me enquiringly. Do you want to lie?

Why would I lie? I’m fifty-six and it’s nobody’s business. I pulled off my garden gloves and wiped sweat from my forehead, adding dirt to the smears already there. Burns interrupted my Monday morning tussle with the weeds in my front garden when he came by to implore me to help him. Why are you so anxious to land this account?

It’s a big client. He didn’t raise his head, focusing on the application form. "Previous employment. Well, I can give them your resume, I suppose. I’ll fill in the major ones. Technical consultant, Lerner Corporation. He grinned at me. When he saw my thunderous expression he ducked his head again. I’m not lying. You’re a technical consultant. Visiting Professor, Central Iowa College. His pen hesitated on the page. No need to go into details, I guess."

How am I supposed to hostess a business dinner when I don’t even own a black dress? I worked for Burns now and again, usually as a tech guru for women who weren’t comfortable letting a man into their homes. Allen’s All-Around Aides was one of the premier employment agencies in Stratford, our bustling little suburb outside Des Moines, Iowa. I enjoyed the occasional jobs which could be wedged in between my consulting jobs at Lerner and my sporadic teaching at the college.

You’re a natural for this. Well, except for the part about hostessing. And kids. Burns leaned back cautiously in my wicker chair, probably not anxious to get dirt on his pristine white shirt. My front porch was, admittedly, a bit on the rustic side. It was badly in need of a coat of paint. My once-white furniture bore the brunt of the northerly winds that kicked in dirt from my garden and the farm fields a mile away. Burns’ khaki pants were already smudged by a run-in with my lilac bush, which overhung the sidewalk leading to my house.

So what part am I a natural for? I chugged lemonade from my National Wildlife thermos, trying to wash away some of late August’s cloying humidity.

The gun part.

Gun part? I snatched the clipboard from his hand and read the job description aloud. Mature woman needed for teenage girl as nanny and companion. Business social skills required, as well as teaching experience and knowledge of video game technology. Knowledge of firearms preferred. I looked up. Okay. I can cover firearms, teaching, and technology. Why me?

This is a plum assignment. If my firm gets it, we’ll have an in with the other rich clients in town. Burns regarded me with his big puppy-dog brown eyes, such a beautiful contrast with his stylishly trimmed blond hair. Plum. Absolutely top notch.

Wait a minute. Who’s this for?

Burns took a deep breath. John Aire.

What? I shoved the clipboard back at him. No way.

Charlie, come on. Consider it. Burns regarded me imploringly. Think of the kid. You could have such a good influence on her.

The kid? I pulled off the fabric headband which held my curly white hair away from my face. You mean Adele? The daughter of two murdered parents and grandchild to a suspected murderer in America and a drug lord in Jamaica?

Burns waved one manicured hand. Gossip.

Truth.

Okay, yes. Her parents were murdered. By persons unknown. The Jamaican grandparents haven’t been heard from in years. And John Aire was not charged in the disappearance of his wife.

The charges weren’t brought because there wasn’t enough evidence, I said. That doesn’t mean he’s not culpable.

You would know that, of course, because of your police background and your work at Lerner’s.

My late husband’s police background, I snapped. And yes, I do happen to know about that kind of thing.

And you know about firearms, which makes you perfect for this job. He smiled triumphantly.

The girl needs a bodyguard, not a nanny. Her grandfather—Aire—is one of the richest men in the state. Hell, he’s the richest in the Midwest. And her other grandparents are involved in God knows what kind of illegal activities, if they’re still alive.

She has several bodyguards. He wants a companion for her. A mature companion.

I snorted. Well, I’m not sure I’m qualified there. I may be in my fifties, but some people might question my maturity level.

Why? Burns blinked innocently at me. Because you have a yard full of unusual metal sculptures you’ve welded yourself? Because you teach Tai Bo Kwan Do or whatever it’s called? Because you fought City Hall and won?

It’s not welding, it’s soldering. Otherwise, I’d say yes to all of the above. I smiled, unable to stay peeved with Burns for long. He was such an amiable goof and had the charm of a good salesman, which is what he really was.

I regarded my yard, the reason for my fight with City Hall. My little acreage was recently designated a Monarch Habitat. Thus I was exempt from the stupid rules about mowed lawns and manicured hedges. Most of my neighbors were laid back about my overgrown oasis, but one neighbor in particular was a thorn in my side and tried to have me arrested. Seriously, Burns, I don’t think I’m the right woman for the job.

Well, I considered Liza Reade, Burns admitted.

I flopped back in my chair and shot him an incredulous look. Rigid Reade? My few interactions with the woman in question revealed a puritanical young woman with scathing opinions about today’s immoral society.

Or Georgie, her sister, he added.

Good Lord, Georgie’s a harlot and Liza’s a saint. Surely you have someone on the payroll who is half-way between the two of them?

I do and it’s you. You’re between cats, right? So you can be away from home?

Yes, I said reluctantly. I provided foster care for elderly and ill cats. I found homes for them or, more often, they remained with me until they died. I was currently B.C.

There’s another big point in your favor.

I wiggled my feet in my well-worn red Crocs. Jamaica.

Burns nodded. The kid is Creole. Her father was John Aire’s son and her mother was Jamaican.

Old memories bubbled up in my mind. During my sophomore year in college, I was an exchange student in Jamaica. I met Art Nichols, a young policeman in Kingston. We had a steamy love affair that broke off when I returned home. But he followed me back to the University of Iowa and within months we were married. Nick died seven years later of typhus, contracted when he returned to Jamaica on family business.

It’s been thirty years. The last time I was there was for Nick’s funeral. I haven’t been back since.

You might be able to make a connection with the kid. Burns touched my hand. I didn’t mean to rake up old memories.

"Feel no way. Don’t worry, I translated when I saw Burns’ blank expression. I still know some of the old patois."

I imagine the kid is out of her element here. Or maybe not. She and her parents were in witness protection for more than eight years. Who knows? Maybe they were in a town like this.

I smiled. In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a very large Jamaican population in the Midwest. I doubt they were housed near here.

Good point. It’s because of Aire’s son, the kid’s father, that the Jamaican drug cartel was almost eliminated.

It’ll never be eliminated. It can only be subdued for a time. That gang has its fingers into everything on the island. No wonder Aire needs a bodyguard for her.

I told you, Burns said with exaggerated patience. He doesn’t need a bodyguard. He needs a companion. It’s not dangerous, if that’s what you’re worried about.

I’m not worried. I was more intrigued than worried. This would definitely be a once-in-a-lifetime job, that’s for sure.

Think about it, okay? I’ll submit your paperwork then you’ll have to go for an interview. Just consider it, please?

I sighed. Go ahead and submit it. But don’t you dare exaggerate my talents.

Thanks for helping with this, Charlie. Like I said, if I score this contract, I’ll have an in with the other Richie Riches in town.

In that case you’d better start recruiting more nannies and companions. The folks on your staff aren’t quite the type.

Burns jumped to his feet. I’m already on it. I’ll let you know when the interview is scheduled.

If it’s scheduled.

He smiled, his perfect teeth so white in his tanned face. No, when. I’m sure you’re a shoo-in. I’ll be in touch. Burns hurried down my sidewalk, giving the lilac bush a wide detour before hopping into his SUV.

I waved to him when he drove past the house then considered my front yard. It was noon and getting too hot to do much more work. I walked around the side of my small Craftsman house to the two-car garage. Half of it housed my car. The other half was my work area where I kept my tools and supplies. The two sides were separated by heavy fabric to keep the dust on the working side away from my car.

I entered the house through the mudroom/laundry room where I kicked off my shoes. I peeled off my clothes, dumping them into the basket on top of the washing machine. The mudroom connected to my bedroom straight ahead or to the kitchen on my right. I considered a snack but opted for a shower instead.

Half an hour later I was freshly scrubbed and dressed. I looked around for Shirley, the diabetic and elderly orange tabby who was with me. Then I remembered. She died a week before. I sighed, wondering what perverse part of my personality allowed me to form attachments to animals who could not be saved.

I made a sandwich and settled at my computer in my small office before placing a few calls to friends in the police department, confirming much of what Burns said. An Internet search unearthed a plethora of information about John Aire, millionaire recluse and founder of Air Play, a consortium of theme parks based on different media motifs. The one in California was all about the movies. The one in Boston was based on U.S. history. The one in Kansas City was culinary-based, focusing on barbeque. And the one in Nashville was centered around the music industry. Willing patrons spent large amounts of money participating in virtual reality games and adventures at the different parks.

I munched my sandwich and chips while I read. Aire was now in his late fifties. When he was in his early twenties, he married Alberta Bertti Mason, a Creole Jamaican super-model. Before marrying Aire, she was the arm candy of a man who supposedly was a mucky-muck in the drug trade. Aire and Mason met in Jamaica, where he was vacationing. It was a whirlwind romance between two young lovers. They married and immediately had a child, Edward, who was born when Bertti was only twenty and Aire was barely twenty-two.

The relationship fell apart immediately, with Bertti returning to Jamaica and resuming her partying lifestyle. The child, Eddie, was put into boarding schools. Aire threw himself into his work, creating playgrounds for the wealthy. Oddly enough, he and his wife didn’t divorce, they simply led separate lives. Gossip had it that her Roman Catholic family threatened her with expulsion if she considered divorce.

I took a break from my research and went to putter in my She Shed. This was a tiny structure I built the year before among the three oak trees shading the back yard. It was my craft shop, office, and inspiration space, ten-by-ten feet of recycled furniture and odds and ends. I cranked up my stereo, put on my Bluetooth headphones, and spent the afternoon reading, writing a few pages on my never-ending novel, and sketching ideas for my next metal sculpture. I ended up dozing for an hour or so, my feet propped up on the couch while the ceiling fan moved lazily overhead.

I stirred myself at cocktail hour and went inside to mix a drink. I was considering the inside of my fridge when my home phone rang. I glanced at the display. Private number. I let it bounce to my answering machine. Hey, it’s Charlie, my voice said. Leave a message. I’ll call you back, sooner or later.

Miss Rochester, this is John Aire. I’d like to speak with you as soon as possible. A male voice, scratchy sounding but polite, echoed in my office.

I stared in surprise at the answering machine before fumbling the phone out of the base. Yo, hey. I’m here, I said breathlessly.

Ah, good. I was hoping we could talk this evening. I understand you’re interested in a job I have advertised.

Actually, Burns Allen is interested in the job. He feels I’m the right woman for it. You need to discuss an interview with him, not me. I wouldn’t participate in an end-run around Burns.

I see. Can you hold? Without waiting for a yea or nay, the line blipped at me. Damn Musak began to play.

Asshole, I muttered. I set the phone to speaker and put it on the counter so I could resume staring at my fridge. Leftover chicken from the takeout place or leftover Chinese from the takeout place. I opted for Chinese, dumping it into a dish to pop into the microwave.

Miss Rochester, I spoke to Mr. Allen. If you’re amenable, I can interview you tonight.

I snatched up the phone, glancing down at my comfortable, faded capri jeans and loose, off-the-shoulder purple knit top. I suppose that’s okay. How about seven o’clock?

How about now?

What?

I’m not far from your home.

Oh. I thought you meant at Burns’ office.

I don’t see any reason for formality. You can call Mr. Allen to verify my credentials if you’d like.

Verify his credentials? I grinned. I think Aire had a big enough bank account, which was all the credential Burns cared about. Sure, that’s fine. Give me a minute to change my clothes.

There was a slight pause. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m between appointments at the moment. Believe me when I say your choice of clothing is irrelevant to my hiring decision. I would appreciate it if you could make time for me now.

I gave up arguing. This was a man who was accustomed to getting his own way, no matter how polite he made it sound. I may as well get the damn interview done with so I could get on with my life. Sure, that’s fine. I live at—

I have your address. Thank you. He hung up.

I took a long swallow of bourbon then went to the front door mat to grab a pair of sandals. I straightened when I saw a large black car pull to the curb in front of my house. The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life stepped from the car. He was linebacker big, with no neck and a buzz cut, wearing a suit coat that could have sheltered a family of four.

He opened the back door and a man in a business suit stepped out. I recognized him from the Wikipedia picture on my computer screen. John Aire, big as life, in my driveway. Compared to the bodyguard, he appeared short, but he was probably six feet tall with a lean build. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he had an unusual face, one that showed his years and his experience. Cropped, thinning gray hair, a long, lined face, and a gray goatee framing his downturned mouth. The richest man in town, in my driveway.

I glanced at myself in the mirror near the door. Flyaway, curly chin-length white hair, no makeup except for mascara and a sunburned nose. I tugged my blouse so it hung more evenly and opened the front door. When you said you were nearby, you weren’t kidding. I stuck out my hand.

Aire shook my hand briskly. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. He turned to eye my garden. Your yard is quite abundant.

I smiled. That’s one way to phrase it. Please, come in. I moved to one side. Aire stepped past me into the house.

The bodyguard—I suppose that’s what he was—towered over me. Do you mind if I check your house?

Sure, that’s… My voice trailed away when he pushed past me, walking to the kitchen and into the side hall to check the two bedrooms. He returned in less than a minute, nodded to Aire then went outside, closing the door behind him. Well, that was interesting, I murmured.

Aire looked around my living/dining/kitchen space before his gaze settled on me. I thought you’d be taller.

I regarded him with amused understanding. I get that a lot. I sound taller on the phone. A lifetime of being the shortest person in the room inured me to surprise such as his.

The way Mr. Allen talked, you’re a giant.

Burns is prone to hyperbole. I gestured toward the armchair. Have a seat. I warn you, I have cats so there’s cat hair everywhere. I eyed his crisp dark business suit. It appeared professionally fitted and expensive.

He glanced around. Cats?

I did have cats. I will have cats. I waved him toward the chair. It’s a long story.

He sat without a backward glance, leaning back and unhooking his suit jacket in one smooth gesture. The man obviously kept an account with a professional dry cleaner. Why do you want to work for me, Miss Rochester? he asked in his raspy voice.

I took the matching armchair. I don’t particularly care about working for you, Mr. Aire. But Burns would like me to work for you because he feels it will be good for his company. And Burns is a friend of mine. If I can accommodate him and earn money at the same time, that’s fine. I frowned at my fluorescent pink toe polish. I needed a touch-up.

Aire glanced at my feet then my hands. I don’t bother with manicures, I said. I do too much gardening for that.

But you bother with pedicures, he murmured.

A girl has to have some color in her life, I countered. Can you tell me about the job and what your expectations are? I figured it was best to get the details out of the way so I could deal with any misconceptions up front.

As you probably know, my granddaughter, Adele Verrens, lives with me. He pronounced her name Ah-dell, not A-dell as I expected. Adele was in protective custody for two years following the death of her parents when she was ten years old.

What a cool, detached way to talk about his only son’s murder. I seem to remember reading about it.

I was assigned custody of the child when she was twelve, almost thirteen. That was four months ago. I’m in need of a person to act as a companion for the girl. He regarded me steadily, his pale blue eyes neither warm nor cold. Disinterested, dissecting, and direct. The words bounced through my mind when I met his gaze.

In what capacity? I hurried on before he could speak. "I mean, do you want me to teach her? Socialize with her?